


The First of September

by Zigster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also a bit on drugs, BAMF!John, Dialogue Heavy, Implied Drug Use, John is a good influence on Sherlock, John's favorite mug makes an appearance, M/M, Medical Clinic, Originally a one shot but now expanded!, Promises (hopefully) kept, Recovery, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Silk - Freeform, So does his robe, Street busker, Texting, cashmere - Freeform, promises made, violin player
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: The man halts his struggles and glares at John, assessing him, flaying him apart without saying a word and John stares right back into those calculating, unearthly eyes. He refuses to back down first. He’s survived war, this kid does not scare him.“Stop fighting. They’re only trying to help you.”-------------------Originally a one-shot. Now extended and complete!





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for mentions of drug use (non-intravenous) and a slightly younger, drug-addicted Sherlock. Don't worry, though, John is here to help.

Written for Tumblr's monthly **[Sherlock Challenge](https://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com/)**

**January's theme: _Change_**

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This story is not beta'd but well looked over. Not brit picked but (somewhat) researched. My medical knowledge is basic, so apologies for any blatant mistakes made, they were unintended. 

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John Watson never gives money to the homeless people he notices slumped against the wet pavement while walking to and from work each day. It’s not that he’s an unfeeling man, far from it, but he knows the hollow-gazed look of an addict when he sees one. This fact does not stop John depositing an apple from his lunch into the hands of a hungry looking long-lost teen, or delivering a fresh hot cuppa from a street cart to an aged man in need on a winter’s day. He’s purchased full meals for people when the thought strikes, and he makes sure they know the address of the clinic where he works before leaving them to their own concrete corner of London. He will never give those same people the change in his pockets, however. Money to them means finding a fix, and the doctor inside John Watson cannot abide the thought.

 

Which is why when a young man is brought into his clinic one day, shouting nonsense at everything around him in a posh accent while wearing a bespoke suit that has seen better days, John’s mouth drops open in shock. The young man isn’t one he’d peg for a junkie, but he recognizes his face, just the same. It’s a unique face, one not easily forgotten, and John has spent too much time unabashedly studying those strange features each day as he walks home from the clinic and drops a couple of coins into this man’s violin case.

 

Coins. Spare change. _Money for a fix_. That’s what he’s been giving him all this time.

 

John’s hands fist at his sides.

 

“How dare you.”

 

The man halts his struggles and glares at John, assessing him, flaying him apart without saying a word and John stares right back into those calculating, unearthly eyes. He will not back down first. He’s survived war, this kid does not scare him.

 

“Stop fighting. They’re only trying to help you.”

 

“Help? They’re ripping my suit!”

 

“It wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Language.”

 

John drops his clipboard on the desk and stands, rounding on the young man, boldly encroaching on his personal space. Not the smartest tactic with an addict, but John feels a personal connection to this one. He's seen his talent and his beauty on full display and thought he was special. He thought the kid knew he was special, he certainly had the ego, and yet here he is, soaring high above them all and causing chaos in John’s clinic.

 

John checks his pupils and counts his heart rate off his wristwatch, ignoring the young man’s piercing pin-prick stare. John’s so enraged, he’s smiling, his mouth pulled back into a tight grimace of disappointment. He steps back from him, whatever spell that the kid had cast over John with his music and his mystery was successfully severed the moment he'd been dragged through the door.

 

“Sarah, we need blood work.”

 

“Right.”

 

Sarah takes over John’s patient. John leaves the office for some fresh air and to find a cup of tea. He had just been getting ready to take his lunch break when they’d brought the young man in, and he almost wishes he’d been out of the office already when they did. Then he could have remained in denial about the busker who plays so beautifully and brings a little happiness to his walk home each day.

 

“Figures,” he mumbles to himself as waits for the kettle to boil.

 

Good things don’t tend to happen to John Watson. Small pleasantries like enjoying a street musician’s music slicing through the dreariness of London in springtime were never meant for John's ears. He’s been put on this earth for different reasons and they involve blood and pain and stress. Not joy.

 

He tries to tell himself that he’s forgotten the incident with the musician as he walks through the door of his flat. He tries to tell himself that life goes on and there’s no point in dwelling on something he can’t control. He tries to stop picturing the young man's face: serine and smooth while playing the violin, and then while at the clinic it had contorted and twisted itself into a fierce rage, pointed directly at John. 

 

He tries.

 

He fails.

 

The keys clink in their tiny dish on the small wooden bookshelf next to the door. The paired thud of his boots hit the welcome matt one after the other. John rights them in a neat row, toes pointing forwards. It takes him a full minute to peel off the layers of the day before turning towards the solace of his small flat and flipping on the switch of the electric kettle. The remote lays next to the kettle, and John aims it at the TV in the far corner, it snicks on with a pop and he walks around the tiny counter island into his kitchen for a cup and a strainer.

 

This is his routine, his meditation on civilian life. He feels balanced with the series of steps it involves, and rarely does he deviate from their sequence.

 

Which is why when he steps into the kitchen and sees the musician he's been trying so hard not the think of leaning one hip against his counter, his Royal Army Medical Corps mug in hand and . . . _is that my_ _robe_ _he’s wearing_ over a startling amount of pale limbs, John almost blacks out on the spot.

 

Except, he’s John Watson, and home-intruders who interrupt his daily routine will most assuredly not receive a hospitable welcome. No, John Watson does not blackout. Instead, his soldier instincts kick into overdrive.

 

In two seconds John’s favorite mug is extracted and deposited (safely) on the counter behind him and the young man is pushed face down onto the kitchen table, right arm wrenched back in between his shoulder blades. John uses his free hand to hold the man’s face to the table, his white skin cool beneath John’s steady, strong fingers.

 

“What. The. Hell?”

 

“It’s nice to see you too, Doctor.”

 

“How’d you get in here?”

 

“Simple.”

 

“Simple?”

 

“I picked the lock.”

 

“There’s a deadbolt.”

 

John sees the huff of hot air the man breathes out fog the smooth surface of the table but he doesn’t answer. In retaliation, John kicks his legs into a wider stance beneath him, further hindering the man’s mobility.

 

“I’m waiting.”

 

The man huffs again. “I came in through the window.”

 

John immediately scans the flat with calculating eyes, trying to assess which window holds the weak point.

 

“The bathroom window,” the man beneath him rumbles.

 

John nods. Right. _Fixing that._

 

“Are you planning on keeping me like this? My shoulder is starting to cramp.”

 

John blinks down at the man, his audacity astounding. “Fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“I’m letting you up. But know that you’ll find yourself very much unconscious if you attempt anything.”

 

“I have no doubt, Doctor.”

 

John grimaces at the tone and steps back, establishing four, quick paces of space between himself and the intruder. He crosses his arms over his chest to keep himself still and waits.

 

Slowly, the man unfolds himself, rubbing his shoulder. His exposed, pale arm underneath the too-small robe showing a surprising lack of the track marks John thought would most assuredly be present on his skin.

 

John tilts his head to the side. “Pills or powder?”

 

The man glowers at him.

 

“Which is it?” John hates repeating himself when he’s mad.

 

“What makes you think it’s either?”

 

John laughs, and despite his smile, he’s seething.

 

“I thought needles at first, when they brought you in, but unless you shoot up between your toes . . . What’s your name?”

 

The man pauses at the nonsequitur but answers, “Sherlock.”

 

“Unique.”

 

“Silly,” he corrects. “My parents loved giving us silly names.”

 

“Us?”

 

“Yes, us. Of course there’s an _us_. Don’t I seem like a second child to you?”

 

John shakes his head. “No. You seem like a drug addict.”

 

“How little you think of me. I'll have to work rather hard to reverse that obtuse opinion of yours.”

 

“I wouldn’t plan on it.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

“I don’t think you’ll be around long enough to try.”

 

It’s here that Sherlock smiles at the doctor, his eyes lighting up with the challenge that’s just been laid at his feet.

 

“You’re wrong, Doctor.”

 

“I’m really not.”

 

Sherlock’s smile widens and he steps forward, eliminating the space between them. “You don’t think I’m capable of changing my ways?”

 

“Junkies never change.”

 

“You’ve known a fair few of them, have you?”

 

“Just two.”

 

“Sibling and parent, I take it.”

 

John’s head tilts again, he is both alarmed and intrigued. “Yes.”

 

Sherlock nods. “Figures.” He steps back, knowing now that John Watson will never stand down.

 

Sherlock finds himself liking this man immensely, a feeling in the pit of his stomach growing with each moment he spends in his presence. It eclipses the thrill he’d felt earlier of spending time in John’s flat alone and imagining, and realises that his joy is now three-fold with the object of his attentions stoic and solid in front of him.

 

He’d learned John’s address off an envelope someone carelessly left on the clinic’s front counter. An idea had occurred to him then, and he wanted to see it through. The rest was child’s play. Row homes were simple to break into if one along the row had access to the rooftops. Fortunately, John’s neighbor was having some work done to their chimney and the workman’s ladder granted Sherlock the in he needed. The small back window of the bathroom would no doubt be the one most often left open to air out the room and Sherlock slipped in with the practiced ease of a dancer stretching his limbs at the barre.

 

“Did you shower?” John asks, just now taking in the wet curls drooping along Sherlock’s brow.

 

“I did.”

 

“You used my soap?”

 

“And your shave kit.”

 

“And my robe.” John rubs his hands over his face. “I’m going to have to burn everything.”

 

Sherlock pales. Bitterness pools at the back of this throat, stinging his tongue and he knows the taste for what it is - adrenaline. He's angered to the point of panic and the pain that lances through him at such a comment causes a staggering wound inside himself which he hadn't been prepared to feel. 

 

John sees the look on Sherlock’s face and scoffs. “Oh, that hurts your feelings, does it? You’ve broken into my house and used my shower, my bloody soap, and made tea with my favorite fucking mug! You do not get to be offended, Sherlock.”

 

“You think I’m sick.”

 

“You are sick. You’re an addict.”

 

“You think I’m _soiled._ ” Sherlock spits the word, his face contorting into an ugly grimace.

 

John lifts an eyebrow in response. Sherlock composes himself and starts to pace, a cool mask coming over his strange features.

 

“Of course you’d think that. It's an easy assumption. I’m only a ‘street kid’ to you. A junkie. A person in need of your medical attention, and _only_ your medical attention. You come home each and every day and strip yourself clean of such duties once you walk through that door and don’t think of them again until you’re putting your lab coat back on at the office the next. That’s fine. Perfectly acceptable compartmentalization. Except you’re wrong.”

 

“I’m wrong?”

 

“About me. Yes.”

 

“I don’t have any reason to believe you’d be the exception from the other cases I’ve seen, Sherlock. And you breaking in here is not okay. That is not normal behavior.”

 

“Oh please. Normal. Normal is boring.”

 

“Is that why you get high? To combat boredom?”

 

Sherlock halts in his steps, John’s robe swinging about his legs with the abrupt movement. He doesn’t like that John can read him so well and yet he craves the attention the man is giving him. He wants to keep that attention for his own, pocket it and warm himself with its flame whenever he feels lost in the sea of his own mind.

 

“Very astute, doctor. You can figure that pathetic bit of reasoning out yet you can’t see that I’m different?”

 

John laughs, though it’s a bitter sound. “Yes. Of course. You are different, Sherlock. I was wrong. How could I forget that you broke. Into. My flat! That doesn’t speak very highly of your abilities to control yourself long enough to get clean, kid.”

 

Sherlock huffs and orbits himself around the kitchen table once more. He feels desperate and needy, two emotions he despises yet the good opinion of this man is important to him and once he’s set his mind in one direction, he follows it through. Determination for a result is a strong motivator.

 

“What would you have me do, then?” he asks, a breath away from pleading.

 

John nods at the door. “Leave.”

 

Sherlock chokes on his own response, his throat tight. He doesn’t want to leave, he likes it here. He desperately likes this man. But he sees the set in John’s shoulders and the anger in his eyes. He has invaded a personal, sacred space, defiled that space with his own presence and then expected more from the man than he was willing to give.

 

It was too much to ask, too soon.

 

“Fine.” Sherlock raises his chin and exits the kitchen.

 

John internally allows him three minutes in the bedroom before he plans to knock the door down with his foot if necessary. It isn't. Sherlock emerges after only two minutes, dressed in his too-large suit, John’s robe slung over his arm like a coat.

 

“Taking that with you?”

 

Sherlock pauses on the way to the door. “Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Sentiment.”

 

John finds the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile at the word but he doesn’t know why. He watches Sherlock unlock the deadbolt and pull open the door, his dark hair hiding his eyes from John’s penetrating gaze.

 

“I’ll return your robe in September.”

 

“September? It’s barely spring.”

 

“Yes. Six months. If I return your robe to you in person six months from now you’ll know I’m clean. If it arrives via courier, you’ll know I’ve failed but either way, I’ll have it returned to you.”

 

“Sherlock--”

 

“Goodbye for now, John Watson.”

 

The door closes behind the man with a small snick, and John is left alone. He turns his head towards the calendar hanging on his fridge and walks into the kitchen, picking up a pen along the way. He flips through the pages until he finds the correct month. In the box labeled September 1st, John marks a little red x and writes _Sherlock_. He steps back, staring at the strange name and finds himself hoping very much to see his face again come autumn.

 

\- Fin -

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Thank you for reading!

Come find me on tumblr - **[Zigster-Ao3](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/)**

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 **Question:** Does anyone know of any fics where Sherlock is a busker? I know it's mentioned in one of the movie plot lines from _Performance in a Leading Role_ , but are there any stories where he's actually a street musician? I'd love to read them. I think that premiss has a great many Johnlock possibilities. :) 

 


	2. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a delivery he doesn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out of me this morning after a few of you lovely people asked for more. This is an interim chapter. A bridge to the resolution of September 1st . . . which is still not written but I understand now that it needs to be. For now this is the only interim chapter, but there might be a few more in the future. 
> 
> Not beta'd but (somewhat) looked over.

 

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John Watson takes a new route home now. He tells himself it’s because springtime has come to London and seeing the budding branches flourish along the pathways of the park is a nice reminder that life carries on regardless, and that he should follow its example. He tells himself this but it’s a lie. He walks home by the park because Sherlock doesn’t play near the park, he plays at the foot of a statue, a soldier, around the corner from his clinic.

 

John changed his route the day after Sherlock had stormed into his life and subsequently left it in the same manner. He didn’t want to know if the young man would still be playing on the streets for spare change. He tells himself it’s because he hopes the kid has gone off to get help. He tells himself this but it’s a lie. John Watson never once walked home again passed the statue of the soldier because he knows that if he saw Sherlock’s face he wouldn’t be able to ignore him. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself approaching the man. Bargain with him. Help him in some way. Offer him more than a turse nod and a hollow heart.

 

John was cruel and the doctor inside him feels like he failed Sherlock. He should have been better, kinder. His guilt keeps him away from the statue of the soldier and veers him towards the garden paths of the park. His guilt is what makes him regret ever asking Sherlock to leave.

 

Three weeks have passed since _The Sherlock Encounter_ , as John has labeled it inside his journal, when a knock on the door sounds just as he’s settling into his arm chair with his favorite mug. John looks sadly from his Earl Grey to the door and places the mug down.

 

“Yeah. Coming.”

 

He pulls open the door and finds a startling woman standing before him; a vision in black. Her eyes are downcast, assessing her phone. She does not look up from the glow of the screen as she gestures to a parcel on the floor by her delicate feet.

 

“For you.”

 

John smiles at the entirely random situation. “What’s this, then?”

 

“An apology.”

 

John steps back and crosses his arms. “From whom?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Alarm bells go off in John’s head and he inadvertently looks towards the fridge. The small calendar hangs askew on its hook. It’s only April. _Sherlock, what have you done?_

 

The woman, oblivious to John’s internal panic, hands over a letter on heavy, expensive card stock. “Good day, John.” She turns, her head still angled towards her phone and clacks off down the stairs in painful looking heels. John watches her retreat only for a second before he’s snatching up the parcel and slamming the door closed.

 

He makes quick work of the box, and lifts the lid off with a tad too much force, the cardboard twisting under his fingers. Beneath his hands is, thankfully, not what John was expecting to see, and he sighs in relief.

 

There’s a note placed on top of a very fine looking cashmere dressing gown inside the box. It simply reads _A replacement. For now._

 

John is smiling like a madman at the four words on the card. He can’t control the small giggle that escapes him, nor does he try. John feels like he’s flying.

 

The expensive stationary lay next to the box, practically forgotten until he looks down again to run his hand over the softest material he’s ever touched. He picks up the envelope and extracts its contents, a short letter, and a small, matte grey card with a name and a number printed in silver ink.

 

_Mycroft Holmes_

_07911 111895_

 

John places the card on the table next to the box and looks down at the letter.

 

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

 

_It has come to my attention that my younger brother has taken a liking to you. He has an odd way of showing his affection, I apologize for any damage caused to your home. Do send me a bill if repairs are in order._

 

_He sent off this package via standard post, but I intercepted on account of having this letter delivered directly._

 

_Your influence over my brother is impressive. He’s come home. He’s behaving. He also wears a rather hideous robe about the house. Hence the parcel you now find yourself holding. Contained within is Sherlock’s favorite dressing gown. Dare I say, enjoy._

 

_I shall remain in contact with you when necessary._

 

_Regards,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

 

John’s shaking his head in disbelief by the time he finishes reading. “Who are these people?”

 

...

 

It takes John three days to finally pull the ridiculous cashmere robe out of its box from where it rests on the kitchen table. It takes another two before he even considers wearing it around the flat.

 

Saturday morning finds John shuffling out of the bathroom, rubbing away the sleep from his eyes and scratching lazily at his pants when he sees the robe draped over the back of a chair in his bedroom. It’s cold this morning. April can be a miserable month, even when it stops raining long enough for the sun to peak its head out from behind the omnipresent grey clouds. Despite the dreariness of the day, John spots a small slash of weak, morning light cutting across the camel colored fabric, slanting down over the chair, onto the floor, and pointing towards John’s bare feet. He rubs at his hair, his contrarian nature waking up inside him.

 

 _It is not calling to you, John Watson_ . _It’s just a robe._

 

A very comfortable and warm looking robe. Gooseflesh rises up on John’s skin as the thought passes through his mind and he huffs out in frustration. He’s being ridiculous. It is just a robe. A bit of cloth. Nothing more. He stalks forward and grabs at the soft fabric, forcing his arms through the sleeves which hang too long past his hands. He rolls the cuffs and wraps himself tightly in cashmere, a luxury he’s never experienced before in his thirty five years.

 

Not wanting to dwell on how comfortable he is or how perfectly amazing the bloody robe actually is, John walks off to the kitchen to start the kettle.

 

He wears the robe all morning. After he returns from an afternoon run and a trip to the market, he showers and puts the robe back on, this time against his bare, freshly cleaned skin. The sensation is pure heaven and John luxuriates in that feeling for the rest of the day. He watches reruns, reads the paper, makes more tea, and sorts out dinner, and never once does he contemplate getting properly dressed for the day. 

 

John Watson is in love. With a robe.

 

He can see why Sherlock considers it his favorite.

 

That thought gives him pause. Why would Sherlock give up something so precious to him, something so damn comfortable? He didn’t seem the type to share or be generous in anyway, yet he'd sent John a ‘replacement’ for the pathetic flannel robe Sherlock took with him when he left. There was obviously much more to the enigmatic man than John had originally assumed. Perhaps Sherlock was different after all. 

 

If John Watson finds himself smiling more often after that day, he tells himself it’s because the weather has turned from dreary, constant rain to light drizzles and warner breezes. He tells himself it’s because the first flowers are starting to bloom in the garden paths at the park and seeing their color brings a brightness to London’s soddened pavements. He tells himself this but it’s a lie. John Watson smiles more because Sherlock gave him his favorite dressing gown, and along with it, a little bit of joy.  

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Thanks for reading. 


	3. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives another unexpected package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally can't help myself. I'm sorry. This was supposed to be a one shot!

 

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John Watson is on a date when his phone goes off unexpectedly in his pocket. The date isn’t a monumental thing, just a cup of coffee, but he apologizes just the same and attempts to silence his phone when the call cuts off and a text flashes across the screen from a blocked number.

 

_Look up_

 

He does and sees the same startling woman who’d arrived on his doorstep in April. Her ever-present phone is cradled in one hand as she passes over yet another mysterious package to John with the other. Her eyes dart briefly to his face, acknowledge that he has in fact accepted the package with his own two hands, then turns on her spiky heels and walks off.

 

When John turns back towards the table his date is wearing a mirrored look of confusion on his face and John shrugs his shoulders in response, leaving the box untouched by his elbow. He wonders if the blocked number is that Mycroft Holmes fellow. He wonders if Sherlock has failed. He wonders if he needs to sprint home, dig out the business card from his rubbish drawer in his desk and phone the man who claimed to be Sherlock’s brother. He wonders if he’ll be too late . . . 

 

The panic that rises in his throat at the thought chokes the breath out of his lungs and he coughs into his fist and shifts in his chair. He attempts to compose himself but he knows he looks far from the cool and capable doctor he’d like to portray to his current companion.

 

His phone buzzes again.

 

_Calm down. I’m fine. Open it._

 

“Who’s this now?” his date asks, and John looks up from his phone, relief swirling in his belly like sun-kissed honey.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’re smiling as if you’ve just received good news.”

 

“Oh! Yes. I did. In a way. Sorry.” John puts his phone face down on the table. It buzzes again. He can’t help but look.

 

_Now_

 

John huffs in an irritated way and pockets his phone, disregarding any other vibrations that rattle the keys in his pocket against his hip. Sherlock is fine. John can relax, and he plans to do just that if he can ignore his phone long enough.

 

He hasn’t had the pleasure of chatting with someone aside from his coworkers or sister in months and he’d like very much for this date to move on to something more substantial than a caffeine fix. He takes a sip of his tepid cappuccino, shifts in his chair and flashes his most winning smile across the table, hope bright in his eyes.

 

. . .  

 

That evening, John walks into his flat disappointed and alone. _Well, not entirely alone_ , he thinks, looking down. The box is slung under his arm, and it feels light to him, nothing like the weight of a flannel robe, thankfully. He places the box on the coffee table and turns to switch on the kettle.

 

So much for his romantic prospects. He didn’t even get a chance to finish his coffee before excuses were being made and John was watching a very fit looking ass walk away from him at five in the afternoon. What a pathetic hour of the day to be denied.

 

He ignores the boiling kettle when the switch pops and instead pours himself a dram of whisky and slumps into his armchair, deflated. It had been a rough week at the clinic. The local A & E had phoned about a patient. A young man had slipped into a coma after being brought in for an overdose and the clinic's business card had been in his pocket. John had sent them over any paperwork he could find on the man straight away but next day came the news that the man had succumbed in the early hours of the morning. He was only twenty seven years-old.

 

John hates to compare the two, but his youth and his drug of choice had made John’s thoughts inevitably turn towards Sherlock. He hasn’t heard from him since April. No news is good news, but still, John worries.

 

With the warmth of summer quickly approaching, the cozy camel robe which John has grown so fond of is now too heavy to wear about the house. Putting it on each day has come to feel like a small victory; one more day wrapped in comforting cashmere without his flannel robe in sight means one more step forward for Sherlock. It's a silly thought, childlike, but it brings John a little bit of joy, so he doesn’t question it too deeply. Still, in the past week the humidity in the flat has been too close for John to even think of wearing a vest, let alone a heavy robe, so the cashmere sits, abandoned on his bedroom chair. 

In one swig, John finishes off his dram and leans forward, eagerly tearing into the package, curiosity overcoming him. Inside is another short note, another ridiculous dressing gown.

 

 _For summer_ , is all it reads and John smiles down at the box full of blue silk in his lap.

 

“What a presumptive prick.”

 

The words are harsh but John is beaming. He quickly pulls the light silk out of the box and lifts it in front of him to examine. On the breast pocket is embroidered in large, elegant script _W.S.H._ and John finds himself wondering what the W stands for before he’s rubbing his face against the fabric like a cat lost in a field of poppies. If his vocal chords were capable, he’s sure he’d be purring.

 

It’s then that he remembers his phone and retrieves it from the bookshelf by the door, noting the seven missed texts on his screen. His smile widens.

 

_John, open it_

 

_Now, John_

 

_Aren’t you curious?_

 

_Aren’t you concerned?_

 

_John_

 

_Your date is a promiscuous, pathological liar with a gambling addiction and two ill-tempered cats. Not worth your time_

 

_Open the box_

 

John wishes the number wasn’t blocked so that he could respond to the man. Tell him, _message received, you posh git_ , and ask him how he pulled off a hand-to-hand delivery in a crowded cafe. He wishes he could tell him thank you and ask him how he’s fairing.

 

He finds himself more often than not nowadays wishing very much to talk to this impossible person. He doesn’t know why, exactly. Sherlock’s behavior is bizarre at best and downright illegal at worst, and yet John is intrigued and each time he pops back into his life, no matter how distant the encounter, John ends up smiling.

 

The next day, after a morning run, and a refreshing shower, John slips the blue silk over his bare skin and giggles in pleasure. Yes, John Watson: the soldier, the doctor, the ever practical man, giggles at the feeling of the delicate, delectable fabric settling softly across his shoulders. He doesn't feel worthy of such luxury. 

 

He looks at the calendar on the fridge, the 21st of June. Solstice. It’s gone summer and he hadn’t even realized.

 

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

 

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Thanks for reading. 

 


	4. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is bored.

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John feels his phone buzz against his leg. He checks the screen - blocked number. 

_Bored!_

John smiles. His eyes immediately scan the pub where he's enjoying a pint after work. He's expecting company, but they're late, and apparently Sherlock is bored. 

_Don't bother. I'm no where near you._

John arches an eyebrow. Where are you then, he wonders, taking a sip.

_In Sussex. Slowly festering in the heat like an infected wound. It's dull._

"How are you doing this?" He speaks out loud to his phone screen. "How can you tell what I'm thinking?" 

_You're like a good book, John. Easy to read and yet I still yearn to turn to the page._

John attempts to hide the blush creeping over his skin by tilting his head down towards the bar, but he knows it's futile. If Sherlock can guess what John's thinking he probably has a good enough eye line on him to see his flushed ears caused by the sudden flattery. If it wasn't for Sherlock's creepy, voyeuristic stalking tendencies, John would find himself rather charmed.

 _Your date is on his way. The tube was delayed._  

"He's not my date," John says again, out loud. The people around him can assume fuck all, as far as John's concerned. For the most part, it looks as if John is sending voice text messages, and he's fine with that. 

 _Your 'date' doesn't seem to agree with that assumption._  

John tilts head to the side in question. 

_He's wearing a freshly laundered shirt, pressed trousers, and new shoes. He left work early to go home, change and still make it in time to the pub. He clearly thinks he's going on a date. Did you not tell him that you were looking for something more casual?_

John blinks at the phone in his hand. _Shit_. This was just supposed to be a quick drink on a Friday between friends, not a date. And Sherlock is poised somewhere in front of a screen watching? What must he think of all this? 

Wait. What? John places the phone on the table, face down and takes a deep swig of his pint. Where did that stray thought come from? He doesn't owe anything to Sherlock. He barely knows him. He doesn't even know if he's clean. He just said he was bored, he could be high as a kite right now, for all John knows. Except. John does know. He _knows_ that Sherlock is keeping his promise; he can feel it in his bones. Each day that passes means another day clean, another day clean means another step towards recovery, and that is very important to John. He's seen the affects detoxing can take on the body, and knows what it does to one's mental faculties. If Sherlock has come this far, John can be nothing but proud of him.

Perhaps all this worrying and wondering, coupled with Sherlock's surprising gifts, has manifested itself into a bit of a crush? Is that what this sudden spark of loyalty is? A crush on a young man who has a penchant for the more dangerous side of life? John shakes his head, downs his pint and slams the glass back on the counter. He most certainly does not fancy Sherlock Holmes. 

Another buzz from his phone. 

_How's the internal crisis going, John?_

"Shut up," he grumbles, his mood souring. He doesn't want to wait for his friend, accidental date, whatever he is; he wants to go home and watch reruns of Doctor Who. They've been marathoning it all week, and he'd rather not miss his favorite episode, thank you very much. 

"Right." John shoves back his stool, tosses a few coins on the bar top and marches himself all the way home, not once looking back. He shoots a rambling text to his friend, explaining that a bout of stomach cramps overtook him at the pub and he had to high-tail it out of there. He apologizes and also says that Mike Stamford normally stops by the place around six on Fridays, so maybe he'll be able to make the most of coming out, after all? 

Guilt overtakes him as he opens the front door to his apartment building. He's utterly relieved to be home, and yet he feels like an ass for what he's pulled. John Watson does not stand people up, he's the good guy. Or at least, he thought he was. 

He trudges up the stairs, heavy footed, and doesn't bother righting his boots into a perfect line once he thunks them off on the welcome matt. He drops his keys next to them on the wooden floor as a symbolic cherry atop his ruined Friday, and heads towards the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen where the good scotch is kept. 

...

 

The blue light of the telly washes over John's skin, and the scotch swirls delightfully in his belly as he sinks deeper into his armchair with each sip. Sherlock's silk dressing gown is wrapped around him like a soft, comforting embrace. Underneath he wears only pants - it is Friday, after all. 

His phone lights up on the coffee table with another text. John barely gives it notice. 

An hour later the Pandorica has just opened up to relieve an adult Amy Pond to the child version of herself.  John grins lazily as they attempt to figure out the series of Post-It notes left for them to discover, when his phone rings.

Startled, John stares down at the screen to confirm that the call is in fact coming from a blocked number. He doesn't know if he wants to talk to Sherlock right now, what with him  having ruined two of John's dates in just as many months. He internally ignores the fact that the second date wasn't actually a date to begin with, but that is beside the point, as far as John is concerned. Sherlock has made a habit of bothering him when other prospective partners are in close proximity. It's annoying. 

The thought occurs to him then, could Sherlock be the one with a bit of a crush? 

Eyes narrowing, he snatches up the phone. "What?" 

"Oh, hello to you too, John. It is so lovely to hear your whisky-soaked voice." 

"Scotch, actually." 

"Hmm."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"Not to me."

"Oh, I want to speak to you, John. Hence this call and the conversation we're currently having."

John rubs a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. He stands from his chair and slouches his way to the bedroom, leaving the two Amys and the Doctor behind to fend for themselves. He falls head first into bed, his phone still poised at his ear. 

"Hmmmumph."

"I didn't catch that, John. Is someone trying to smother you with a pillow?"

"No! You pompous prick. I just got into bed."

"Oh." Sherlock goes quiet on the line and John realises that he may have made a miscalculation in heading to bed so soon. 

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John." His voice sounds deeper, eager. 

"Why do you keep sending me things? Popping up out of nowhere to say hi?"

There's no immediate response and John adds, "it's not that I mind! In fact - I think it's . . good. Yeah, good. I like you surprising me." 

Heat immediately colors his face at those last words. He throws a defeated arm over his head and waits for the inevitable. It never comes. All John hears is the slight sound of Sherlock's breathing on the other end. John can't help but picture the man in his mind, perhaps lounging on a leather couch in some grand sitting room, floor to ceiling windows opened wide to the countryside view beyond. He sees him draped in the blue silk John is currently wearing, his chest rising and falling as John's is doing now and suddenly, a puzzle piece fits into place - John Watson finds that he very much does, in fact, fancy Sherlock Holmes. 

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You wanted to talk?"

Sherlock swallows, and John pictures his Adam's apple bobbing along a very pale, long throat. "I was bored earlier." 

"Not now?"

The silence that follows is charged with an electric current John cannot name and he finds that his grin grows wider with each breath he takes. A secondary puzzle piece slides home - the attraction is mutual.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"How are you feeling now?"

"Not. . . bored." 

John beams up at the cracked plaster of his ceiling. "Good."

 

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Thanks for reading! *runs away* 


	5. July - The next morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, about last night . . .

 

 

* * *

 

 

Light streams through the gap in the curtains, laying its warmth over John's face. He blinks and turns his head into the pillow, hiding from the morning as if it has offended him. Perhaps, in some way, it has, since he'd been enjoying a rather exciting dream which involved Sherlock's bone-deep resonating baritone of a voice. He twists and stretches his limbs under the bed sheets, enjoying the cool Summer breeze filtering in through the window, feeling relaxed and languid. It was Saturday, after all, and having a bit of a lie-in was definitely in order. 

Beside him is his phone, screen black. He palms it and checks the time, 10:30. On instinct, he opens the messages from Sherlock and reads through them. 

_Your date is on his way. The tube was delayed._

_Your 'date' doesn't seem to agree with that assumption._  

_He's wearing a freshly laundered shirt, pressed trousers, and new shoes. He left work early to go home, change and still make it in time to the pub. He clearly thinks he's going on a date. Did you not tell him that you were looking for something more casual?_

_How's the internal crisis going, John?_

When he comes to the text he'd ignored the night before, he almost stops breathing. After he reads it through once, he immediately rereads the message, feeling as if the floor has been ripped out from beneath his feet. 

_I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. This is by design, John. I used to think that if I lived a life separate from emotion, I'd be protected from its pull. And that was true until you walked past me one day and dropped a few coins in my case. Yes, I knew who you were before the day I was brought into the clinic. Of course, I knew. It is important for you to know that I never used your money for pills. I played on the street so that I could observe people's habits. They are all so predictable. Every one of them, save you, John. You are the exception._

John stares at his phone in shock. _You are the exception_. Boring, practical John Watson is the cog that turns counter-clockwise in Sherlock's machine of a mind. This new information is boggling. Sherlock is an almost stranger who signifies danger and unpredictability and chaos to John, and yet the man finds John special. 

It's a beautiful sort of chaos, though, isn't it? John thinks. A great big jumble of contradictions served on a uniquely attractive and alien platter with the voice of a poet and the habits of a criminal. He'd felt a charge in the air the night before, something crackled on the edge of their conversation, something terrifying, but that only made him crave it more. John has just as much of an addictive personality as Sherlock does, why do you think he went to war? Living in constant fear of one's life certainly gives one a lasting adrenaline high. John just knows how to control himself better, except last night he'd left himself slip. He shouldn't have led Sherlock on. He boldly flirted with the man, and in the harsh light of day, John cringes at that reality.

And yet, _You are the exception._

The phone feels warm in John's palm but he knows it's not a result of the complimentary words. 

Another thought then occurs to John and he buries his face in the bed sheets again but for an entirely different reason. Sherlock had called him after pouring his soul out to John, probably seeking friendship or contrition and John had taken their conversation down an ungentlemanly path of Scotch-fueled sexual innuendo. What an awful friend Sherlock picked to confide in! John is nothing but a frustrated, attention-starved looser who took advantage of a man in a weakened state. 

It's in this moment of deep embarrassment and possible self-loathing that John's phone buzzes in his hand. He pokes his head out from under his pillow, one eye daring to look at the screen. 

To his shock, there's a number displayed above a text that could only be from Sherlock. 

_Stop thinking of me as a damn dainty damsel in distress that you took advantage of, you idiot. You did nothing wrong._

John can't help but smile at the phone because despite everything Sherlock just gave him his number! He immediately texts back. 

_\- Your phone number!_

_Yes. What startling observational powers you possess, John._

John laughs. He's giddy and he doesn't even care why. 

_\- I guess this means we're officially friends, huh?_

_If you insist on such a boring term._

_\- What would you call us then?_

_The English language does not yet contain the correct word for what I'd like to call you._

John blushes and hides a smile, despite there being no one in the room to witness it. He does not understand the hold this young man has on his emotions but he figures he's already fallen way too far down the rabbit hole to consider such curiosities now. 

_\- What are you doing today?_

_Busy today. And besides, John. I have a promise to keep._

_\- What do you mean?_

_September._

_\- So?_

_You were going to ask me about spending time together over the weekend, and as much as I'd like to take you up on that offer, I have to decline. I'm an addict. I can not replace my past addictions with new ones, and you are most certainly addiction material._

John's blush deepens. And as much as the doctor inside him agrees with this assessment, the man who has survived a war rebels against such tentative caution. He runs a hand through his hair in torn frustration and licks his lips. He feels static electricity on the sheets, arching beneath his limbs, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end, and his thumbs hesitate over the phone keypad, unsure of what response to type.

Sherlock types one for him.  _This doesn't mean we can't talk. I gave you my number for a reason. Use it._

A laugh escapes him before he can contain it, and the sound echoes loudly throughout the empty room. He hits 'call' on his phone's screen and waits with an inhaled breath. 

"John." 

"Hello, Sherlock."

"You should know, I hate talking on the phone." 

"But you just said--"

"I _know_ , John. You're the exception. Remember?"

John smiles and sinks back into his pillows. "I remember." 

 

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_._

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_Come find me on tumblr![Zigster-Ao3](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	6. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The special day has arrived!

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Sherlock stands across the street from John's apartment building, his hand helplessly twitching against his side. He's supposed to be walking up the three flights to John's small, perfectly tidy flat right now. He's supposed to be knocking on his door and handing him over a box that does _not_ contain his old robe but a new one that Sherlock thinks will look rather fitting on the man. He's supposed to be stepping into John's sacred space with the full and willing consent of John himself, not breaking in through the bathroom window like some common criminal. He's supposed to be wrapping himself in the strong arms of the smaller man as they come together for a congratulatory hug, and indulgently breathing in the warm skin at the curve of John's neck and shoulder, hoping so desperately for more. 

He's supposed to be celebrating the victory of mind over transport; a self-imposed willingness to keep his brain from dictating how he uses his mental faculties. He does not need a drug to combat boredom, oh how pedestrian of a habit he'd succumbed to . . . but no more. He is the captain of his mind's future trajectory; its true and only master. He is steadfast, clear and present in the moment.  

Currently, he wants to be 'in the moment' in John's flat. He wants to fold himself around the man and never let go. He wants to consume his very soul if John's willing to give it. Except, he knows that the wanting of such a thing is a craving akin to the craving of a pill. A fix. Over the past several months the scant times he's allowed himself contact with the man has only created more of a burning for him. He doesn't just want him, he physically yearns for him, and the space remaining between their two bodies is a torment Sherlock can barely stand. 

And yet, he does. He stands, across the street, staring up at the window of John's living room, slowly breathing in, breathing out. Unsure of whether he should give in to temptation, or walk away. 

Uncertainty is something Sherlock is not used to, and a feeling he most certainly hates. It's a vile emotion and a pathetic one. Sherlock huffs and pulls at his collar, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. The day is oppressively hot for September in London, and Sherlock curses the temperature just as much as he curses his addictive personality. He knows he cuts a much more striking figure with his long coat and his upturned collar, as opposed to the single layer of a crisp button-down, and he'd prefer to present himself to John in as flattering a light as possible. Instead, the man standing on the sidewalk is nothing but a shaky, twenty-something, ex-pill popping kid, with frizzy curls bursting forth from his too-pale forehead, wearing a shirt damp from sweat and cursed indecision. 

Yes, what a striking (pathetic) figure, indeed. 

Sherlock turns and wills his long legs to carry him down the block, away from all the possibilities John and his drug-free life offers. He stops after five paces and turns, heading back to his previous spot but halts again halfway there, runs a hand through his unruly hair and practically growls in frustration. He must get himself under control.

"Sherlock?" 

His head snaps up, curls flying, eyes wide. "John!" 

The man before him steps back a pace or two, startled but grinning from ear to ear.

_He's happy? Why is he happy?_

Sound dies on Sherlock's tongue and he is rendered speechless, a rare thing. He greedily takes in John's presence before him, cataloging everything:  _Bags from the Tesco, wine, cheese, baguette - he's expecting company. Me? Hair, recently trimmed, new style, pushed back. Flattering. Very flattering. Eyes, tired but alert, pupils blown wide. Trainers on feet, track shorts, vest. He's gone for a run. Went to the Tesco just after. Didn't know which cheese to get, so he picked three - Brie, Rocfort, Goat._

"I like brie."

John blinks at Sherlock, the question clear on his face. 

"The cheese. You bought three not knowing which I'd prefer. I like brie. I like goat too, but I prefer the creaminess of brie." _Shut up, Sherlock._

"You were going to leave," John says in response and it cuts Sherlock to the bone to see the look of disappointment on the man's beautifully imperfect face. 

"Yes." 

"Why?"

"I want you too much." Sherlock winces and bites down hard on his bottom lip, willing his blasted mouth to stop speaking. Why the hell did he say that? 

John hesitates before him, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. There's sweat on his brow, and his face is slightly tanned from being in the rare, English sunshine. It adds a vigor to his complexion and Sherlock, in an uncontrolled gesture, rocks forward on his heels towards the man, his need to touch and taste overwhelming him. _I want to lick the sweat off your skin._  This thought causes a moment of panic to rocket through Sherlock's body, leaving him standing ramrod straight on the pavement. Did he say that out loud? 

The expectant crease between John's eyebrows tells Sherlock that he (probably) didn't, and he sighs in relief. A small silence falls between the two men, one shuffling awkwardly in place, the other tipping back n' forth on his shiny oxford shoes. 

"Would you like a drink?" John lifts up one of the Tesco bags and jiggles it for emphasis.

_Ah yes, the wine._

"It's only noon."

John's smile widens, his face brighter than the noonday sun. "Well, yeah. But it is a Saturday. Technically, I'd still be in bed."

Sherlock inadvertently chokes on nothing and coughs, turning himself away from John in the process, appalled at his throat's inability to swallow at this given moment. John just grins at him.

"Bed?" Sherlock blurts, hating the squeak in his voice.  

"Yeah. Saturdays are always good for a lie-in."

Sherlock just nods in a pathetic sort of way before composing himself and gestures towards John. "Wine."

"Huh?"

"Wine. In the bag. Is that the drink you were offering?"

"Yeah! How'd you guess?"

"I didn't guess."

John's grin widens. "Oh right. Yeah. You never guess. You _observe_."

Sherlock allows an indulgent smile to creep over his features. He is so gob-smackingly besotted he almost despises himself. He then concludes that there is no point in worrying about lowering his self-esteem over such fancies because Mycroft will most assuredly be hating him for his pathetically weak (in Mycroft's view) whimsies after he sees the CCTV tapes and Sherlock figures that he should just let the chips fall where they may. 

Still, he hesitates. John notices. 

"It's gonna be okay, Sherlock. You're here." 

"Yes, I am."

"And it's September." 

"Yes, John. It is." 

The man is beaming up at him with nothing to hide. He is baring his soul to Sherlock on the sidewalk with grocer wine and too much cheese in a takeaway bag held tightly in his fists and Sherlock can't help but adore him. 

"Shall we?" John asks and Sherlock turns his attention to John's living room window, his heart in his throat. 

"I don't want to replace one addiction with the other." 

John nods, his face stern. "I won't let you."

"I don't know if you have that choice."

"I'm a doctor. A very good one, and I know that there's always a choice."

"Yes."

"We can do this, Sherlock. It's just wine."

"I wasn't worried about the wine."

John's eyes are warm as he reaches out to touch Sherlock's arm, steady and sure. It's the first time the two men have physically touched and the moment does not go unnoticed by either of them. "I know, Sherlock."

"This isn't . . . usual. For me."

"It's not usual for me either." 

Sherlock huffs out a laugh that's little more than nervous energy escaping his windpipe. He runs a hand through his hair, further splaying the curls to their frizzled fate and stares down at John, at a loss for words. 

John nods his head in the direction of his flat, and Sherlock turns to follow. It seems the decision for Sherlock to follow John had already been made long before either of them spotted each other on the sidewalk. The inevitable had been written down into existence the first moment Sherlock saw John walk past him on the way home from work and the first time John dropped a coin into his violin case for making his day that much brighter during the dreary London midwinter.

Sherlock follows John in through the front door of his apartment building, watching the man with calculating eyes, taking in everything he knows and everything he wants to learn of this extraordinary person who has put his trust in him, even at a distance.

As they climb the stairs to the second story landing, Sherlock remembers the gift he's brought with him. 

"I brought you something."

"I see that."

"I hope you like it."

John smiles at him. "I know I will." 

Together, the two of them step through the door - the final barrier. John toes off his trainers and arranges them just so on the welcome matt, Sherlock follows suit, knowing John's routine without question. Sherlock sees the man staring down the hall towards the bath and steps in front of him. 

"Don't."

John looks up, confused. "Don't what?"

"Don't go wash up. I like you. . . like this."

A blush creeps over John's cheeks and along his neck. Sherlock holds back from touching him, his fingers aching with the need. He hasn't seen the man up this close in months and the intoxicating combination of his scent and immediate presence is acting like a drug of its own to Sherlock's equilibrium. 

"I must smell. I went for a run."

"I know."

John nods. Of course, Sherlock knows. He puts the Tesco bags down on the small countertop, not knowing what to do with his hands now that he's divested himself of the shopping. There's an awkward silence growing between them and John curses internally at his inability to form words in that moment. He's talked to this man countless times over the phone and words flowed easily enough. Why can't he think of a single thing to say now? 

"Here," Sherlock shoves a box into John's hands, rousing him from his thoughts

"My present?" John's eyes area bright and his eyebrows are raised. He looks like an eager teenager in that moment - a kid at Christmas. 

"Yes. Your present."

John happily rips apart the package Sherlock gave him, tearing at the wrapping and the cardboard in equal measure. When the box falls away, leaving nothing but an exquisite robe of green and blue plaid, John simply stares at the thoughtful gift, his mouth an odd wide oval of amusement. 

"It's the Watson tartan."

John's head snaps up. "It is?" 

"Yes." 

"I never knew." The look of boyhood wonder on John's face is startling to Sherlock and he can't help himself when his arms wrap themselves around the man and his nose buries itself in John's neck. 

"I hope you like it." 

The sound is muffled into moistened skin, and John rolls his head back on his shoulders, gulping in air at the sudden closeness of so much Sherlock at once. 

"I love it." 

"Good."

The two men remain in the strange embrace, one holding on for dear life to a bit of fabric in hopes that it'll help him remain in control and the other holding onto the object of his affections with the intensity of an electric storm. 

"Sherlock," John breathes.

"Yes?" The question is asked with lips pressed against skin and John shivers at the sensation.

"Thank you." 

John feels an answering smile spread itself along the warm curve of his neck and he tilts his head forward, nuzzling against a flushed collarbone, giving into the man and all he's promised. There are no more words between them. None are needed. Only the sounds of breathing and sighing and the rustling of fabric as the two of them shift and move with each other in their embrace, aligning further and holding tighter, not willing to let go of the moment they've found together.  

On the other side of the countertop, past the Tesco bags of cheese and wine, past the kettle and John's favorite RAMC mug in which he makes tea every morning, there is the fridge with the calendar hanging loosely on a magnetic hook. It's opened to the month of September and within the entire month, there is only one notation made: a little red x and a scrawled _Sherlock_ under the First of September. 

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_-Fin-_

 

 

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Come find me on Tumblr for artsy sketches and Johnlock love! [Zigster-Ao3](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read this story and left comments and kudos, or just read it and carried on with your day. It doesn't matter. I appreciate you all. I really enjoyed creating these extra chapters for you, and I hope I met (most) of your expectations. 
> 
> Some of you may know that I like to draw, and I think a sketch of these boys in their respective robes may be a nice little addendum to this final chapter. Look for it on Tumblr!
> 
> And! As a final note, I do believe congratulations are in order since tonight we're celebrating the first meeting of our beloved Holmes and Watson!


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